Caring Is Not An Advantage
by Justthisfangirl
Summary: What would have happened if John had died at Reichenbach instead of Sherlock? Sherlock P.O.V
1. Chapter 1

This is my first ever fic, so be nice ;) , and it was beta'd by the lovely imjustaklainer.

* * *

"John. Keep your eyes fixed on me."

"Wh-What? Sherlock, tell me what's going on!" I can see his face pointing up at me, and I can imagine that creased look of confusion across his face. I breath in, and raise one hand to wipe a tear from my face. Interesting. I never cry. But, John...  
"This is what people do isn't it? Leave a note?"  
"Sherlock!" I hear him call my name twice, once out loud, and then the tinny echo from my phone. I see him break into a half run towards St Barts. My eyes flicker to a building opposite, where the faint shadow in a half-open, upstairs window betrays the location of the sniper behind it.  
"No! John!" Him calling my name is the last thing I hear. I see him stumble, and fall to the ground. I see the crowd of people rush towards him, and cluster around him. Even from here, I can see the pool of blood beginning to form on his stupid jumper. I always wound him up about those jumpers, told him they made him look hideous. But they were adorable. He was adorable. He only has a few minutes, I know that. I've spent enough time around corpses to know that nothing good ever comes from a bullet wound to the stomach. I take a ragged breath in. Sound suddenly becomes all too loud, as a shaky voice suddenly blares from my mobile.  
"H-Hello? Wh-Who is this?" I can see the woman who has rushed over to John's phone, lying where he fell, and is spinning around, trying to see if anyone around can help. My phone slips from my grip, and I stare as it falls, falls down into the street, and I see it smash into oblivion. I step back from the ledge, and bring my hands up to my face. I kneel on the ground, not caring about the growing pool of Moriarty's blood which is soaking through my trousers. My eyes are drawn to the gun in his hand, and I reach towards it.  
My hand hovers over the gun, and I realise that my hand is shaking. I take a deep breath. Caring is not an advantage. That's what Mycroft said. Ever since we were little. He thought I cared about The Adler Woman. But I didn't care for her like this. Not like I care for John. Breathe Sherlock, you can do this. I get up, and walk slowly back towards the edge of the roof. I crouch down, and peer over the ledge. The paramedics are already here, and the crowds are being pushed away. I can see them slowly picking John up, my John, and putting him into an ambulance. My eyes start to sting, and I cover my face, as I start to cry. I slowly stand to my feet, and walk towards the door of the roof. Blindly, I make my way downstairs, avoiding eye contact with doctors rushing around the hospital. I keep going down, until I reach the morgue. I fumble with the door handle. I never fumble. I briskly wipe away the tears that are streaming down my face. I open the door, and see Molly smiling brightly at me. Why is she smiling? John is - John...  
"Sherlock? What's... What's wrong?"  
"Molly, it's- it's John." My voice catches at his name. I see her mouth fall open. That lipstick does make her mouth look big. I told her so. John told me off afterwards, said it was rude. What am I going to do without him? No, not now, can't think about that now. Don't think, Sherlock, do. I bring my attention back to Molly, who is standing there, saying something I can't hear. She steps closer towards me, and reaches out a shaking hand. I flinch at her touch, turn and flee. Back to the flat. Back to our flat. Back to 221B.


	2. Chapter 2

As I enter, I see Mrs Hudson pop her head out from her sitting room.  
"Oh, hello dear, John not with you? Seen the news, terrible shooting down at St Barts? Sherlock?" I hear her call my name again and again, as I run up the stairs, taking them two at a time, before getting inside the flat. I shut the door, and find myself staring at his chair. We kept talking about getting rid of that chair, since it only came with the flat, but John would have none of it. So I let him keep it. I look away from the chair, as my eyes begin to sting, but everywhere I look I see traces of him. His half drunk tea still sitting on the table, his laptop open, halfway through typing up another blog entry, one of his jumpers still strewn across the armchair. I walk towards it, with shaking legs, and reach out for it. My fingers clasp around the thick material, and I pull it towards me. I clutch the jumper, and stare at it. Just stare. Maybe I can keep him a little longer this way. But it's not the same. It never will be. Without him in it, a hideous jumper is just that, a hideous jumper. I hear a knock on the door behind me, and it swings open, I spin, stupidly, expecting, praying to see John standing in the doorway, but it's not. Mrs Hudson's standing there, with Lestrade just behind her, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.  
"Yes?"  
"Oh God, uh, Sherlock, it's-it's me, uh-"  
"Lestrade, I'm not an idiot. I'm fully aware that it's you, I have eyes. I'm not Anderson." Maybe a bit harsher than usual, but, considering the circumstances, I think I'm allowed.  
"Sherlock. It's John. He's been shot. And, uh... Sherlock, John's... John's dead." I hear his voice break on the last word. Lestrade runs a hand through his hair, and shuffles awkwardly. "And, uh, I know its awful timing, but we - we really need to get someone to ID him before we can send him down to Molly." Oh God, I can't see John like this. Please. I want to remember him the way he was. Funny. I've already switched to past tense. No longer 'is', but 'was'  
"I- I'm busy. I've got a case. Why not just call Harry?"  
"Harry? Sherlock, she hasn't seen her brother in years. I can't make her first sight of her brother in years one of his... his body. Sherlock, we both know you haven't got a case. Make John your case. Please." I sigh, and nod slowly. Lestrade turns, and leaves, while Mrs Hudson lingers in the doorway. I catch her eye, and she looks away. I can see her lower lip begin to wobble. I feel like I should say something, but, I don't know what to say. John was always better at this sort of thing. For the first time in what feels like forever, I actually want to be close to someone right now. But not Mrs Hudson. Not Mycroft. Not Molly. Not even Lestrade. Just John. She turns and walks downstairs.  
I look down, and realise I'm still holding John's jumper. I want to put it down, it's John's jumper, I should put it back, he'll want it when he gets home. When he gets home. He's not ever getting home. I blink back tears furiously, and realise that I've been holding my breath. I exhale sharply, and put the jumper back on the chair. I turn towards the door again, and begin to head towards the stairs. As I leave, and shut the door of 221B, I lean against it, and breathe deeply. It'll be okay. It has to be. I managed fine before him. I'll be fine now... No, I won't. I rest my head against the door, and take short breaths. In and out, Sherlock, in and out. Trying to remember life, and how I used to act, back when it was just me, before it became a jumbled maze of Me-And-John. I didn't need anyone then. But, God, I need someone now. I need him. 


	3. Chapter 3

I hover outside the door of the morgue. I really can't do this. I don't want to see John this way. Why did they pick me? Why did he pick me? I can still remember when we first met, him limping into the morgue with Mike, and the bemused look on his face when I asked "Iraq or Afghanistan?" I still can't believe he agreed to move in with me. Who'd want me for a flatmate? John did. Adorable, lovable, perfect John. My John.  
Everybody loved John. I didn't know a single person who didn't like him. It was me that everyone had a problem with. But I was learning. Slowly, John thought me what was right and wrong, and how to act, how to be a person, how to have a heart. But John was my heart. We melded to become one person, and it feels wrong to be without him, without him lingering by my side like a puppy. With that look on his face whenever I was spectacularly brilliant. But what's the point of being brilliant without him? I take a deep breath, and push open the door, knowing full well what lay inside.

* * *

It's been three weeks. I don't sleep much anyway, but since John has been gone, I haven't had a decent night's sleep. I started smoking again too. Without him, I don't care how I die. A part of me, the most important half, died with him. The funeral was well attended, as expected. Even Harry and Clara reconciled, and got over their differences in time for the funeral. Everybody is here, even Mycroft. He left his beloved Diogenes Club to come. I was treated like a bereaved widower, but I suppose that's what I am. Towards the end of the service, they asked me to give a eulogy for him.

"How can I even begin to describe John? I- I suppose I loved him, not in a romantic way, but he was perfect, and so brilliant, and, well, he was my other half. There's no other way to describe it. He completed me. I despise all this sentimentality, but John would have liked it, I suppose. I can't help remembering a song that John used to have on his iPod. I always ridiculed his music taste, but it seems fitting. '_What am I supposed to do when the best part of me was always you? And what an I supposed to say when I'm all choked up and you're-_' you're... John, I can't do this. Not without you. All I have to say is that, John, I miss you, so, so much. I was alone, and I owe you everything. You were, no, you are my best friend. I will always believe in you, and I owe you so much."

* * *

As I stumbled back towards my seat, I saw Mrs Hudson reach out her arms for me, and, for the first time since his death, I cried properly. Once the emotion started, it couldn't stop. All of my emotions were expressed through John, and now I don't have him anymore. Sobs rack my body, and I find myself clutching Mrs Hudson. The service ends, and I see the mourners, all with pained and vaguely embarrassed expressions, watch me cry, before drifting away. Soon, even Molly and Lestrade leave, followed by Harry and Clara, and eventually, we're the only ones left in the church, and Mrs Hudson stays with me. She stays until I have no tears left to cry, and until I can barely stand.


	4. Chapter 4

As me and Mrs Hudson finally left the church, with her supporting me due to me being almost too weak to stand, I spotted someone standing near John's newly filled grave. I started to stumble towards them, batting away Mrs Hudson's help.  
"Go home." I hissed at her. She stared at me a moment with her red-ringed eyes, before nodding quietly and walking away. I watched her leave, before turning back to the grave. The figure is still standing there, shielding itself from the rain with a black umbrella. As I stare, they turn towards me, and my eyes narrow as I realise who it is. I walk closer to the grave.

* * *

"Mycroft, what the hell do you want?"  
"Well, little brother, I simply came to pay my condolences to John. I know he meant a great deal to you."  
"... Are you not going to lecture me about getting too attached? As you always do?"  
"After the death of Miss Adler, I did tell you that it is not an advantage to care for people. People are... unpredictable. However much you can deduce about their past, Sherlock, you can never deduce their future. I learnt that a long time ago, Sherlock, and it was about time you learnt it too."  
"Mycroft, I know that you are an emotionless bastard, but this is John we're talking about. John, who refused to spy on me for money. John, who helped me solve dozens of cases for your government. John, my flatmate? My best friend? Remember him? Or have you erased him from your memory already? Just like you always do. You lurk in your pathetic Diogenes Club, and let the rest of the world go on around you. How can you stand there, and be so unfeeling? He was my BEST FRIEND." Mycroft had stood there silently during my outburst, but when I got to this sentence, I saw his face harden, and he began to glare at me.  
"You think that I've never lost anybody Sherlock? The great Sherlock Holmes, so great, he knows nothing about his own brother. And I thought that Sherlock Holmes, that brilliant detective, didn't have 'friends'. Apparently, 'they're just a distraction' as you deigned to tell me repeatedly during our childhood!" Mycroft spat bitterly. I saw him glance down at John's grave. He breathed in slowly. "Look, all I'm saying, is that I stand by the fact that caring is not an advantage. Caring leads to weakness. It's easier just to forget the pain, Sherlock. It hurts you less. I know you hate taking my advice, but, just this once, get over your pride and listen to me. I am sorry about John." With that, he pushes past me, and strode briskly towards the gate of the graveyard. I turned back to John's grave. I crouch down, and with a trembling hand, trace the letters of his name.  
"John, my John. I suppose, Mycroft was right, partly, although I hate to admit it. I don't have friends... I have just one. You.  
What am I going to do without you? Everything is just as you left it, you know, in case you ever come back. Look at me, I'm a wreck, sitting here, talking to a tombstone. That's what you did to me. You've made me less of... less of a machine. And I thank you for that John. You're my best friend, and nobody will ever replace you. Who'd have me for a flatmate? Even Mrs Hudson will be fed up of me eventually. But I'm going to stay in the flat. That's the only way I can make sure that nobody else takes your room. Nobody else can ever take your place."


	5. Chapter 5

"It's me again. It's been exactly a year since you left. And a day hasn't gone by when I haven't thought about you, John. You changed my life when you entered it, and you changed it again when you were gone. Did you know that I've phoned your mobile every single day, just to hear your voice on your voicemail? I've been a wreck since you left. I've even stopped doing cases. Lestrade keeps trying to make me help him, I think he's trying to keep me occupied, but it's just not the same without you. Nothing is the same without you. The flat is still empty. Just me there. Well, me and Hamish. Mrs Hudson thought I should get a dog, and I agreed. I told her it was because there are lots of places you can enter undetected with a dog. But it's really because I miss you. She said I wasn't allowed to call it John. Said it was morbid and strange. So Hamish had to do. The dog is just someone to talk to, or talk at, just like I used to talk at you. I used to barely notice when you weren't in the flat, but now it's all I can think about. I wish you would come back. Maybe it would hurt less. I almost wish I could forget you. I erased things I didn't think were necessary. But I haven't forgotten a single word you ever said to me. I even learnt about the solar system, after you said it was important. 'IT'S THE SOLAR SYSTEM.' you said, and so I learnt it. Everything you ever said is inside my head. Stored away. Just like your stuff. After a few months Mrs Hudson wanted me to get rid of some of it. I refused. I can't let you go. I can't ever let you go. But maybe Mycroft was right all along. Maybe it's not an advantage to care. I can see that it's illogical for me to still miss you, but it hurts, so, so much. I've been thinking, John. I haven't stopped thinking, not since you left. And, I was thinking, it might me time to forget you. I know, I know, I said I would never erase you. But my head is so full of John Watson that I can't even function. You will always be my best friend, I need you to know that." I take a deep breath in, and my breath catches in my throat. "B- Bye, John." I close my eyes, and focus on erasing every trace of John Hamish Watson, ex-army doctor, blogger extraordinaire, best friend, from my memory.

* * *

I open my eyes to find myself inches away from a tombstone. I stagger backwards and quickly get to my feet. I bend down to read the inscription.

'_John Hamish Watson BSc_

_1973 - 2012_  
_Exceptional doctor, devoted brother, loyal friend'_  
I frown slightly. John Watson? The name seems familiar. I dismiss it, can't be important. I turn up my coat collar against the wind, and pull my phone out of my pocket. Scrolling through my contacts, I click on a number and ring it.  
"Lestrade. It's me. Why the hell haven't I got a case?...what? Don't be preposterous, why on earth would I be 'taking a break' from cases? God, its like talking to Anderson. Case. Now."


End file.
